


Chemistry And History And The Places Inbetween

by lookupkate



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bottom Sherlock, Fluff and Smut, Idiots in Love, M/M, Power Play, Sherlock is a Brat, Smut, Teacher AU, Top John
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-04
Updated: 2015-06-12
Packaged: 2018-03-29 01:52:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 19,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3877870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lookupkate/pseuds/lookupkate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is settled in his ways and quite happy teaching seventeen year olds history. What he doesn't need is change. Change is bad.</p><p>Sherlock Holmes is change.</p><p>Or, as DaringD says "Mad-scientist, Chemistry teacher Sherlock Holmes is new to the school Ex-Army doctor, History teacher John Watson teaches at. He's looking for a flatshare and damned if the hot, brilliant, young thing is RIGHT up Mr. Watson's alley!"<br/> </p><p>This story goes out to all my homies. I see you reading and I love it!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mr Holmes, Mr Watson

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts), [yarnjunkie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yarnjunkie/gifts), [Tardisqueen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tardisqueen/gifts), [DaringD](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaringD/gifts), [Batik](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Batik/gifts), [MyriadProBold](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyriadProBold/gifts), [JunkenMetel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JunkenMetel/gifts), [Doctor_Tinycat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doctor_Tinycat/gifts), [JuJuBee (Marcy09)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marcy09/gifts), [mafm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mafm/gifts), [vixis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vixis/gifts).



At forty-five John was settled in. He had breakfast at the same cafe every Friday morning and got his Military-cut hair trimmed at the same barber every month. Life had worked its way out, eventually, and five years after a bullet nearly took his life, and did take a huge hunk of flesh, if not a pound, John found himself stable. 

He'd been teaching history for three and a half years, falling back on his second major when medicine hadn't worked out after the Army. History was good, he thought, predictable. Just like him. No matter what changed around him the facts surrounding the Second World War and the settlement of Australia never changed. 

Everything was working like clockwork, his world complete if flawed. 

That's usually when things fall apart though, isn't it?  
_____

Sherlock Holmes was a freight train. You could hear him careening down the hallways before he even got to you and when he passed he seemed to leave a trail of papers in his wake like plumes of smoke. That and the way he talked had people's eyes bugging out of their heads. That was why, the Dean at his current school told him, when a young boy said he was being picked on by the slightly manic teacher everyone believed it.

"This is simply the last time I'll let it slide, Mr Holmes. I expect you to find a new school by end of term," the frail woman said. "That is all."

Sherlock had the peace of mind to leave without speaking up, already well aware he was to be kicked out and rather looking forward to a change of pace. London, perhaps. He'd get some feelers out.  
_____

Two months later John had just settled in with his pint to commiserate with his fellow teachers. Mike was running late, probably due to the new baby, but Molly was there and John could always talk with her about almost anything. The others, Anderson, Simmons and the band teacher, Paul Smith, were nearly useless. 

It wasn't that he didn't like them in particular, Anderson aside, it was that John didn't really like people as a whole. Don't get me wrong, people loved John Watson, John could charm a crowd in seconds, but he'd never really felt like he belonged anywhere outside a war zone. Even then his friends were few and far between, for years Murray and Sholto made up the entire group. John Watson, against all outward signs, was just not a people person.

As he drank his pint and listened halfheartedly to Molly's story about one of her students yet again lighting nearly the entire room on fire he wondered if that was why he was single. 

He'd had plenty of girlfriends before the Army and quite a few after but they all wanted to become 'serious' after a while and he just never had the inclination. They would drop not so subtle hints, like leaving a toothbrush or item of clothing at his flat, and he would have to break it off. He didn't want a girlfriend living with him, all his things were in the right place. There was always something uncomfortable even in having someone spend the night, rolling over in the morning and seeing them sleep mussed should have pulled at something in his heart but it just didn't.

John was happy to see Mike approaching when Molly started to ask questions about what he thought of what she'd been saying. He wouldn't have been able to answer them, mind running amok as it was. He kissed her on the cheek and went to buy Mike a drink.

"Molly talking your ear off?" Mike asked, resting against the bar top with a tired smile on his face.

"Naw," John lied.

"You're a funny one, John," Mike said with a chuckle as a pint was pushed his way.

John simply shrugged and walked with him back to the group. When they'd sat Mike looked at John with a mischievous smile and tilted his head to the right.

"Are you still in that horrible little bedsit?" he asked.

John scrunched up his nose and nodded curtly, not sure where the conversation was about to go.

"There's a new teacher coming in, Mr Holmes, and he's looking to flat share," Mike said.

"What does he teach?" John asked, interest piqued as his flat really was abominable.

"Chemistry," Mike answered. "Bit of a genius. Mad scientist type and all."

"When's he coming in?" John asked.

Mike looked up and grinned a grin that on someone else might be called shit-eating and nodded towards the door. In strode a tall man with a shock of dark curls and a scarf tied up and covering his mouth. He was looking down, the low lighting causing most of his face to fall in darkness, but John could tell right away he was rather handsome. As he drew closer and pulled off the scarf, John's chest hurting at the one-two punch of gorgeous neck and cherub lips, Mike motioned for him to join them and John all but froze the second the man's eyes flitted towards him. The intensity, the scrutiny in them was nearly unbearable.

Mike held out his hand and introduced them.

"Mr Holmes," he said nodding towards the younger, Christ, much younger, man, and then, "this is Mr Watson."


	2. In The Back Of The Cab In The Middle Of The Dark Road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock head to the campus.

"I can't stay," Mr Holmes said in lieu of hello, eyes not once leaving John's as he seemingly took up conversation with Mike. "The school only handed me keys just now and I need to set up for lab tomorrow."

"You're having lab on the first day? Bit ambitious of you, don't you think?" Mike said with a wide smile.

That was enough to break eye contact as Mr Holmes looked over to Mike with slight confusion.

"They're legally adults. If they don't want to work then they'd better drop my course," Mr Holmes said sternly. 

"Sixteen is hardly adulthood, Mr Holmes. Maybe tone it back a bit," Mike replied.

Mr Holmes snorted and looked over at John as if expecting him to roll his eyes in agreement. John licked his lips and took a long sip of his lager before slipping into his coat.

"I've some tests to drop off," he said. "I'll head back to campus with you if you like."

Mr Holmes looked him up and down once before nodding and turning to walk out the door. John gave Mike a sympathetic smile and followed the tall man out into the early evening air, pulling his gloves from his jacket pocket and slipping his fingers into them. It was only early Autumn and it should have still been a bit warm but the windchill was up with the setting of the sun and John realised quite quickly why the new teacher had had his scarf up so high.

"Split the cab fee?" Mr Holmes asked as they climbed into the back seat and were on their way.

John gave the driver the address and turned to look at the younger man again.

"Yes," he said. "Good idea, Mr Holmes."

"Sherlock, please. Mr Holmes is my brother," the man said with a small frown.

"Okay, Sherlock," John said, unable to cover his smile. "I'm John."

"Thought it would be something plain like that," Sherlock said. 

John's smile fell and Sherlock waved his hand dismissively.

"It's a failure on your parent's part if anyone's at all," he said.

"I suppose not everyone can be called Sherlock," John shot back.

Sherlock's lips quirked at that and he looked back out the window. "I suppose not."

John stared at the back of the man's head for a moment, not sure why he'd smiled. He was peculiar, and Mike had said as much, but cor, was he gorgeous. John bit his tongue and then cleared his throat to get the thought from his mind.

"So you're teaching Chemistry?" he asked.

Sherlock turned back around and settled comfortably in his seat, the streetlights out the window causing his hair to light like a bird's nest off and on and then off again.

"You teach something predictable. Maths or History. Ah, History, yes. You find comfort in the reiteration of known fact. Do you ever worry you'll grow bored of it?" Sherlock said smoothly, eyes alight as though he were really interested in an answer.

"What do you mean, predictable?" John asked, feeling a bit like someone who's just stepped off a particularly raucous merry-go-round.

"Same thing over and over again. You like to think of yourself as predictable, others do. They see the Military background and the tinge of silver to your hair and think 'reserved older man'. You give off that vibe, did you know?" Sherlock said.

"And you think that's, what, not true?" John asked quickly, feeling his blood begin to boil at some unknown jab.

"Dependable, yes. Predictable? Not at all. You've surprised me three times already, the last involving accompanying me to a probably deserted campus at night for no other reason than you want to. The thing about the tests is bollocks and we both know it. Tell me, John, what about me excites you?" Sherlock said, the smile from before reappearing and growing near rabid.

John sputtered and looked out his window, fingers clutching hard to his leather attaché.

"How did you know I was in the Military?" he asked.

"Your haircut gives it away, high and tight. That and the fact that you took up parade's rest while waiting for the cab to pull to the kerb," Sherlock said.

John glanced back over at Sherlock as the man continued talking.

"You practically ooze Military but there's something else. Your hands are precise and the way you folded your napkin hints towards medicine. I'd love to see you sew up a wound."

At the end of the sentence, one Sherlock hadn't really meant to say, he looked up and his eyes grew wide in anticipation.

"Brilliant," John whispered, the word coming out in a gust.

Sherlock looked behind him, as though there must be someone else in the back of the cab to garner such a response, and then back at John with hesitance. 

"Really?" he asked, voice wavering a bit.

"Yes. That was amazing. Truly amazing," John said, grinning.

"That's not what people usually say," Sherlock murmured, fingers playing with a loose thread on the seat.

"What do people usually say?" John asked.

"Piss off," Sherlock said with a weak laugh.

John's laugh joined his and they were suddenly chuckling together in the back of the cab in the middle of the dark road like old friends.


	3. Thai

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock spend more time together.

The cab dropped them off at the front of the campus and Sherlock took out a small piece of paper and looked at it quizzically. John snuck a peek and realised he was trying to figure out where his lab was.

"It's just down the way," John said, walking towards the front door to the main hall and slipping his keys from his pocket.

Sherlock stood watching him go for a moment before catching up to him just as he'd got the front door open. He followed John in, locking the door behind them, and took in his new surroundings. He'd been to the main office earlier but it was only for a few moments as the clerk locked up and shut down all the computers. Now he had the time to take in the main hall and look through the windows into the classrooms. 

Some were your basic style, the only decoration being the bulletin boards covered in random pieces of paper, while others had what looked like streamers, and posters everywhere. 

Sherlock wondered what kind of classroom John would have.

"Where's your room?" he asked, walking a bit faster to join John and match his stride.

"Oh, it's up here on the right," John said, pointing to a blue door and stopping in front of it. "Would you like to look around?"

"If you don't mind," Sherlock said, impressed a little by his own remembering to follow social cues.

"Sure, not in a rush to get home or anything," John said, opening the door and walking in.

"Because you hate your flat," Sherlock said.

John snorted and looked him up and down once again. "Yeah. Got that right, too."

"You should move in with me. There's plenty of room and the rent is well within your price range," Sherlock said, barreling on in a way John was starting to see as uniquely his.

"A bit upfront, don't you think?" John asked teasingly.

"We know enough about each other, I'd say. Besides, if you try to skip out on rent I know where you work." Sherlock replied, looking around the room.

John said something, Sherlock wasn't listening, and the tone he said it in seemed pleased enough.

The classroom wasn't very big but it was lively enough. The walls were covered in old posters and newspaper clippings and there was an enclosed display case on the far wall that looked to be a war memorial of some sort. Sherlock walked over to it and took in the diagrams and photos and items of interest, noting that there were quite a few fairly new, if not extremely used, pieces that he suspected were from when John was in the RAMC. He hummed appreciatively and then walked quickly away.

"Show me my room," he said, not waiting for John to catch up as he made his way back into the hall.

John followed, one leg a bit stiff, Sherlock noticed, and pointed him in the direction they were meant to go. They made it to the room soon enough and Sherlock got started unlocking the cabinets and setting it up for the lecture and lab the next day as John took a seat near the back to watch.

"Is this your first year teaching?" John asked, hoping the question wasn't too suspicious.

"Why would you think that?" Sherlock asked, still too busy working to even raise an eyebrow.

"Oh, I don't know, you just look..." John tried.

"You think I'm too young for you," Sherlock replied.

John sputtered and scratched the back of his neck, grinning. "No, I just thought-"

"You aren't as old as you think, John," Sherlock said. "Maybe a few too many younger women have turned you down, but trust me, it's their loss. I am, unfortunately, a bit married to my work."

"Oh, of course," John said, trying not to sound too defeated.

"It's nothing personal," Sherlock said, turning to look John in the eye when he said it.

John smiled and licked his lips, nodding once before speaking. "Of course not."

"I'm about done here," Sherlock said after a few long moments.

"That was fast," John replied, not sure he wanted to be done taking to the man.

"Efficiency is important to me," Sherlock stated calmly. "Would you like to see the flat?"

John nodded and stood.

_____

In the time it took to get to Sherlock's flat on Baker Street he had John in stitches retelling stories from his last school. Whether they were one hundred percent accurate or he exaggerated John didn't know. He didn't particularly care, though, as Sherlock was one of the best story tellers he'd met, what with the bizarre tales and unblinking stare. John's stomach hurt from the laughing by the time they pulled up to the kerb and Sherlock was having a bit of trouble hiding his happiness over it, the corner of his lips curling up a bit.

He followed Sherlock up to the landing and into the building all smiles and snickers. The place was nice, he had to admit, a bit nicer than he'd expected.

"We're up the stairs," Sherlock said, already acting as though John had agreed to move in. "The landlady is Mrs Hudson, she works at the school."

John only had a moment to be surprised before the woman herself appeared, brushing flour off on her apron and giving John a familiar smile.

"Why, John Watson. What are you doing here, young man?" she asked as she pulled him into a hug.

"He's moving in," Sherlock said quickly.

"Well, haven't really decided that yet, now have I?" John said after kissing Mrs H on the cheek.

Sherlock waved his hand and started up the stairs with a dismissive 'matter of time'. Mrs Hudson nearly cooed and patted John on the back as he turned to catch up. 

"Will you be needing two bedrooms?" she asked cheekily.

"Of course we'll be needing two bedrooms," John said, a bit taken aback, though not insulted, by the woman's assumption.

"Don't worry, love, there's all types round here," she said cheerily.

Sherlock had only moved in a week prior so he couldn't really be blamed for the boxes that remained unopened but the mess in the kitchen, scientific detritus galore, was all him. He knew this and began straightening it as soon as John walked through the door, trying already to impress the man that he was definitely not going to date.

"Nice size," John said, smiling as Sherlock stuck some papers to the wall with a knife.

"You leave my walls alone!" Mrs Hudson admonished. "That's coming out of your rent."

Sherlock refused to comment as he went to the second staircase.

"Your room is at the top of the stairs. I believe you'll find it acceptable," he said, not taking his eyes off John as Mrs Hudson flitted about behind the ex-Doctor in an attempt to tidy a bit more.

While John was upstairs looking at his soon-to-be bedroom Sherlock quietly told Mrs H to excuse herself and went to start some water for tea. By the time John came down a cuppa was waiting by the chair opposite Sherlock.

"Brilliant," John said with a smile. "Have you got milk in?"

"Mmm," Sherlock said, thinking. "Don't really know. Mrs Hudson does the shopping."

John chuckled and went to look through the fridge. Sherlock watched him undergo the final test, the fridge test. He might try to tidy a bit but Sherlock wouldn't be stopped from keeping experiments in the fridge, no matter who cared.

"There's nothing in here but mold and what looks like human ears," John said, looking over the door at Sherlock.

"We can order in," Sherlock said blandly.

"What, milk?" John asked.

"No, dinner," Sherlock replied.

John cocked his head to the side and came back to the sitting room.

"Thai?" he asked.

Sherlock grinned into his tea and nodded. Things were going quite well.


	4. Past Mistakes And The Dispensation Of Knowledge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boy, this got rather heavy. I'm trying to move in te direction of talking about why John and Sherlock are both teachers and not just assume they aren't supposed to be. These two get pretty serious pretty quickly and divulge more about themselves to the other than they have to anyone else...ever. Hope you enjoy.

It occurred to John, partway through their meal, that sitting on the sofa sharing delivery with Sherlock was the most comfortable he'd been in years. He hadn't realised the discomfort, like one doesn't notice their feet are tired until the shoes come off, but now there was an overwhelming feeling of relief. He sat back once finished with his food and watched Sherlock continue to pick at the sesame noodles. It seemed impossible to him that this man was real.

John's first impression of Sherlock was that he was a rather cold know-it-all. He'd always liked being around outcasts, the quiet ones, the ones who didn't open up to anyone. It had taken months before he was able to crack Major Sholto, the first smile out of the man feeling like as great a triumph as any. John was surprised, then, that Sherlock hadn't taken long at all.

"You're thinking too loud," Sherlock said as he looked up from below his fringe.

John smiled and rolled his shoulders. "That's a thing then? Can you read my thoughts?"

Sherlock peered at him for a moment and John worried that he actually could but then he just shrugged and went back to poking around in his takeaway box.

"It's just loud," he mumbled.

John smiled and closed his eyes, resting his head against the back of the sofa.

"Why did you stop practicing medicine?" Sherlock asked quite suddenly.

John frowned. He always hated this part. That was why he rarely told anyone he'd been a doctor. Christ, he even went by Mr Watson at work.

"Couldn't perform surgery after I was, ah, injured," he said.

"Enemy fire?" Sherlock asked, already knowing the answer, John was sure.

"Mmm," John said in agreement.

"How many others did you pull out before you were shot?" Sherlock asked.

"Four. Three of them made it," John said, voice tense as he lamented the loss of that comfort he'd been so enjoying.

"The tremor in your left hand," Sherlock pressed on. "Was it the only issue?"

"Had a cane for a while," John admitted, embarrassed as it made him.

"But you overcame the need for it," Sherlock stated, looking at John again with that painful intensity.

"I did," John said curtly.

"I used to do heroin," Sherlock said, the statement coming out quickly and without his usual flair. It seemed to lay flat at his feet. He swallowed and looked away from John before speaking again. "Self medicating."

John took the cue and nodded slowly. "But you overcame the need for it?"

"A bit," Sherlock said, words sticking to the inside of his mouth and coming out almost stuttered. "I was committed. By my brother."

"Rehab?" John asked, a bit more at ease now that he wasn't talking about what he considered to be his own failures and missing the fact that the turn in conversation was tailored to do exactly that.

"Yes," Sherlock replied. "State of the art facility. Hated it."

"Well," John said in what he knew was his 'Doctor' voice, "don't suppose you're supposed to want to go back."

Sherlock breathed deeply before standing and going to fiddle around with something in the kitchen. John watched him to and soon was beside him, placing the left-overs in the fridge next to the ears and then thinking better of it and moving them a shelf up.

"I'd better get home," he said, unsure of where he stood with Sherlock at that point.

"You can move in as soon as you'd like. Tomorrow after school would be fine. Unless..." Sherlock started, swallowing nervously.

John cleared his throat and nodded quickly before rolling on the balls of his feet. "That would be nice," he stated calmly.

Sherlock looked up for the floor with what john could have sworn for a second was relief. It was pushed under an obviously false disinterest and John nodded again before going to the landing.

"John," Sherlock said just as the man was starting down the stairs.

John stopped and turned, their height difference even more stark from where he stood.

"Know any good places for breakfast?" Sherlock asked with a small smile.

"A few," John said, shoulders pulling back as he shoved his hands into his pockets, not at all sure why he felt suddenly like puffing out his chest and quite possibly pounding on it like Tarzan used to. "Meet you here at seven?"

Sherlock nodded and John smiled at him once more before turning and leaving.

_____

The next morning Sherlock was dressed in a dark charcoal suit and emerald green shirt under his greatcoat. John thought he would have looked more comfortable on the red carpet than the kerb and wondered why he was actually noticing another bloke's clothes. Thoughts best kept to yourself, he reckoned. He walked up while Sherlock was still looking at his mobile and cleared his throat. When Sherlock looked up John was a little uncomfortable with how blank his face was. He'd rather wished to find a familiar smile.

"John," Sherlock said, the name sounding like a whole sentence to the shorter man.

"Ready for breakfast?" John asked.

"Afraid I'll have to cancel," Sherlock said, mouth twisting and giving John the impression that he'd eaten something foul.

"Oh," John replied, impressed by how crushed he felt. Pathetic, really.

"My brother is picking me up, it seems. I'll have to catch up with you on campus," Sherlock said, looking up and down the street in anticipation.

"Right, well," John began. "I'll see you there."

Sherlock nodded and then looked back to his phone as John turned and headed back to the tube. The older man didn't notice the slick black sedan that rolled up just as he left although he thought he saw Sherlock's face as the car passed by.

_____

John was eating in his classroom at lunch when Sherlock walked in with a tray full of food. Mrs Hudson had found him, then. He didn't look too happy with it and set the tray down quickly before sitting across from John and crossing his arms.

"How does she think I could possibly eat all this?" he asked, voice astonished and almost offended.

John chuckled and picked a chip off his plate, and then another, and added it to his homemade meal.

"Oh, yes, laugh away. You won't be laughing when I've eaten it all and you have to teach my course as I lay sleeping under your desk," Sherlock groused.

John laughed harder and took a bite of his chicken as Sherlock rolled his eyes and dipped a chip in some sauce, nearly drowning the thing before popping it into his mouth.

"How did your visit with your brother go?" John asked once he'd swallowed, quite pleased that Sherlock had found him and made himself at home so easily.

"Horrid as always," Sherlock whined.

John smiled and ate, sitting back a bit in his chair and breathing deeply as Sherlock began listing all the things his brother had done to scorn him in the last month. When he pushed his feet up to rest on the edge of Sherlock's chair the man ignored it and continued on with his story, the conclusion of which being a warning to avoid his brother at all costs.

"I don't know why you're smiling," Sherlock pouted.

"Because it's perfectly human to not want to be around your own sibling," John replied.

"You have a sibling you don't care for," Sherlock stated suspiciously. "Brother or sister? No, wait, let me see...brother. Though he wasn't in the army."

"Sister, but you're right. She wasn't," John said.

Sherlock's mobile buzzed in his pocket and he took it out and sighed before sending off a quick message and tossing it on the table.

"Your brother?" John asked.

"Suffocating," Sherlock replied, picking up one of the small pieces of fish and nibbling around the edge.

Sherlock was silent for a long while until he sighed so loudly it got John's wandering attention and cleared his throat.

"This is my second term teaching," he said quickly. "I was made redundant at my last job."

"Oh?" John said, trying to sound unconcerned as he could tell it made the younger man unsure.

"One of the staff's sons said I was picking on him," Sherlock replied with a scowl. "What he meant was that I didn't like him. But even that's a ridiculous complaint as I don't like any of my students."

That gave John pause and he removed his feet from Sherlock's side so he could sit up a bit straighter.

"Sherlock?" he asked carefully. "Why are you a teacher?"

Sherlock scrunched up his nose and shrugged slightly as he looked away from John and focussed on the far wall.

"I don't know. I always wanted to be one. There's something quite powerful about the dispensation of knowledge," Sherlock said quietly, sounding a bit confused.

John hadn't seen the man like that before. He'd seen him uncomfortable when talking about his past drug use but this was something different, something closer to disappointment than embarrassment.

"Do you like teaching?" John asked.

Sherlock actually looked him in the eye and was about to speak when students began milling into the room. He closed his mouth and stood with a still fairly full food tray in hand. John stood with him and walked to the door.

"I'll talk to you soon," he said, meaning it.

Sherlock nodded and left.


	5. Now, Let's Begin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the first day of school and we get to see a bit of Sherlock and John's teaching styles.

Sherlock stood in front of a group of thirty students, fifteen of which were destined to drop his class in the first week. He surveyed the room, taking in more information than any of them might have thought. The first to speak, a brash boy with a bad attitude and no abusive parent or poor economic standing to blame it on, grinned at him, all teeth and no respect.

"Are you actually old enough to be a professor?" he asked, kicking his friend under the table in an attempt to get the other boy to watch as he expected to catch his new teacher off guard.

"Are you actually foolish enough to even assume you can pass my class?" Sherlock retorted, pulling his book from his briefcase and turning to the board to begin writing without giving the boy a chance to respond. "This is introduction to Chemistry. The few of you that will pass this class with an acceptable grade can follow me into Advanced Chemistry next term. When I say few I mean it."

_____

John smiled at his class as he opened his book and took a seat on the front desk with his feet on a folding chair. The class grew quiet and a few of the girls grinned at him.

"Hello everyone, I'm Mr Watson and this is History Three. I recognise a few of you from last term," John said. "For those of you who don't know me, my teaching style is a bit different from Mr Anderson's. I'll encourage you to think on your own and create informed decisions about not only the material we will cover but the implications of it. I'll expect you to raise your hand if you'd like to speak but that's about it. If you don't want to speak I won't make you. We will have four tests during this term but they will affect your marks little. Your grade will depend on your attendance and class work. Now, let's begin."

_____

At the end of the day John was talking loudly about recent events with his students and gesturing wildly at the front of the room. It wasn't until Sherlock appeared in the doorway that any of them realised the session was over. Sherlock crossed his arms and looked around the class as John stood and tucked his hands into his pockets with a smile.

"Well, it looks like we've run over. Hurry on home," he said as the students scrabbled to tuck their papers away.

Sherlock moved out of the way as they left the room still talking animatedly, and then entered to stand next to John, who was cleaning off the board.

"How were your classes?" John asked looking over his shoulder as Sherlock sat in his chair and rested his shoes on the desk.

"A few promising students. The rest are wasting my time," Sherlock said.

John chewed the inside of his cheek and pulled a chair up across from Sherlock. The man looked up when he sat and cleared his throat.

"Have you thought about teaching a uni course? Maybe the students there would be more up to your caliber," John tried.

Sherlock shrugged and looked at his fingernails.

"Teaching, even the basics, is important. I know it can be hard when you've just started and haven't set up a rapport with the students but if you go in thinking that they're wasting your time they'll think the same of you," John added.

"They think I'm too young to be a teacher," Sherlock replied.

"So use that to your advantage. Make them want to connect with you," John said. "Did you ever have a teacher you really liked?"

Sherlock nodded but continued to look down.

"What made you like them?" John asked.

"She expected me to excel," Sherlock said. "And she respected the material."

"So do the same for your students," John said with a small smile. "Expect them to excel and give them the tools to do so. Do you have a lesson plan?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied, eyebrows drawn together.

"Maybe we could look it over tonight when we get home."

Sherlock nodded and John smiled as he stood to get his things.

"Ready to head out?" he asked. 

"Yes."

"We'll have to get a cab to move most of my things but I don't really have any furniture. The place came with it when I moved in," John said as they walked down the hallway to get to the street.

"My brother has taken it upon himself to move your things," Sherlock said with a frown. "As I said, he's suffocating."

John stopped in his tracks and clenched his jaw. "He moved my things?"

"Yes," Sherlock said. "And he did comment on your illegal firearm."

John gritted his teeth and started to walk again. "I'm going to need to set up a few ground rules with that arse."

"Good luck," Sherlock huffed, sticking his hand out and hailing a cab.

John slid into the back and Sherlock joined him. They didn't speak for the whole ride as Sherlock texted his brother furiously, telling him off in the most scathing way possible without getting too close to the 'stay away from my boyfriend' speech he really wanted to unroll.

_____

That night after dinner Sherlock brought his lesson plan out to the sofa and had John go over it with him. John tried his best to break the news to him that the things he was requiring were too advanced for the beginning students and Sherlock acquiesced, scratching things out with a red biro and handing the papers back so John could make notes in the borders.

By the time they were done Sherlock had wedged his feet under John's thigh and was resting against the arm of the sofa. John swallowed roughly and reached for the remote to turn on the telly.

"What do you want to watch?" he asked.

When Sherlock didn't respond John looked over to find him with his eyes closed, hands steepled under his chin. John smiled and found himself a rerun of Brideshead Revisited and relaxed into the sofa, absently gripping one of Sherlock's ankles. Sherlock's breath caught but John didn't notice.


	6. Secrets And Monsters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This has a bit of a painful end but I hope it's honest in its pain. 
> 
> TW: hints of past noncon. Off camera.

Sherlock figured it was inevitable that it happened, he'd had no choice in the matter.  
The two men fell into a wonderfully relaxed monotony, easily understanding each other and becoming inseparable.

The first time he felt something more than comfort around John he didn't recognise it as longing. It was a tight pull in his stomach while watching John shave. As the man drew the blade down his neck Sherlock wanted to reach out and touch the clean skin, wanted to know how it felt against his fingertips. The feeling was unsettling to say the least.

"Sherlock, are you in there?" John asked for the third time. "We're going to be late if you don't get dressed right now."

Sherlock swallowed and blinked a bit before nodding and going through into his bedroom to put on his suit. He went over the situation in his head again and again and devised a plan, one which would determine how he proceeded from there.

_____

John was sat at the large round table in the corner of his classroom when Sherlock came in with his lunch tray later that day and implemented the first stage of the plan. He took a seat next to John, much closer than he did anywhere but the sofa at home, and set his tray down.

"I was thinking we could rent a movie tonight," he said. "I know you've been interested in the horrible new Bond film."

John's face lit up. "Really? You'd watch it?"

"That's what...friends do. Isn't it?" Sherlock said, Adam's apple bobbing as he picked up a carrot and put it into his mouth.

"Yeah," John said. "Yeah, sounds good."

Sherlock nodded and chewed, unable to see the brilliant smile on John's face due to his own cowardice stopping him from looking up from his lunch tray. And John's smile was brilliant. It was bright and open and it was probably a good thing Sherlock didn't see it because the amount of emotion it held would have surely put him into something close to a coma. People didn't ever ooze positivity towards Sherlock like that.

After he ate the carrot, and another, he sat up a bit more and dragged his briefcase onto the table. John was still smiling at him, this one more like looking at an eclipse through a cardboard box with a hole in it than the sun at full noon with your naked eyes, and it did make Sherlock feel a bit loopy but he went on getting his things out none the less.

"I'm going to have the signup for the field trip today," he said once he'd got his bearings.

John's mouth did something exciting and he cleared his throat before nodding quickly. "Good. I hope it all goes well."

"I don't think anyone will sign up," Sherlock said.

John raised his eyebrows and Sherlock huffed before folding his arms and looking away. They'd been talking about this attitude for a while now. About changing the way Sherlock looked at his students from suspicion to hope. Hope, for Sherlock, always seemed like a waste of time. He admitted now that it felt quite refreshing when it all went well. 

John rested his hand over Sherlock's, rubbing his thumb across his knuckles in what quickly went from reassuring to something else, something that stuck to the roof of John's mouth and made him want to swallow a few times.

"I hope at least five of them will sign up," Sherlock said quietly.

John licked his lips and looked at where their hands were, his smaller fingers barely covering Sherlock's, and felt very much like a teenager again. He heard the door open and pulled his hand quickly away, Sherlock's choice of sitting so close meaning that his hand landed squarely on the taller man's inner thigh under the table, something that made the muscles under that finely milled wool twitch and flex keenly.

"John, Sherlock," the dean said as he entered the room.

"Lestrade," Sherlock said flatly, face nearly slack as he took in the older man.

"Can I talk to you, John?" the man asked without anymore preamble.

John looked to Sherlock, for what he didn't know, and found nothing there, no emotion whatsoever. He blinked and got up to follow Greg into the hall. When he closed the door behind him Greg began to talk.

"He's asked for a field trip," Greg said in a hoarse whisper.

John smiled a bit and Greg sighed loudly before scrubbing a hand across his brow.

"Is this going to end in disaster?" the dean asked.

"No. Jesus, why does everyone have such a shite view of Sherlock as a teacher? He cares about the material and...well, he's working on caring about the students," John said in an exasperated whisper.

"You've no idea what he was like at the other school, do you? He made three students cry on three separate occasions in his first week alone. He's brilliant, yeah, but he's a bloody liability," Greg replied.

"Give him a chance," John countered. "He's trying."

Greg breathed deeply and nodded once before turning and walking towards his office and John went back into his classroom. Sherlock was looking through his notebook and scowling.

"What was his problem?" he asked.

"He was surprised you wanted to bring your students on a field trip," John answered honestly.

Sherlock shrugged and John sat back down next to him, picking his fork up and taking a bite of the chocolate mousse Mrs Hudson had given him. Sherlock furrowed his brows and moved a bit closer, breathing more evenly when their legs touched. John didn't know what to tell himself, honestly. He didn't want to stop what happened next but he still felt a little bit foolish doing it. His right hand fell to Sherlock's knee and he gave it a quick squeeze before settling it there.

_____

After dinner John turned the telly on and worked his way through the options until he found the movie. Sherlock sat down next to him with a huff, dressing gown pulled tight around his shoulders, and picked one of the pillows up to hug it. John smiled slightly and set the movie to play.

"How did the signup go today?" he asked as the previews started.

"I told them all they'd get extra credit, like you suggested," Sherlock replied. 

"And?" John pressed.

"Thirteen," Sherlock said flatly.

John grinned. "That's enough!" he exclaimed.

"It's an unlucky number," Sherlock pouted.

"You wanted them all to go," John corrected gently.

"Not Simons," Sherlock quickly spit. "Now shut up. The movie's starting."

John smiled to himself and watched as the familiar opening played. 

It took approximately thirty-two minutes for Sherlock to move closer to John, pressing his feet into John's lap and wiggling his toes until the older man sighed, for show, and began rubbing along his arches. He hummed happily and closed his eyes, blocking out the movie and focusing only on John's touch and the fact that it was grounding in a way he wouldn't have expected to be acceptable. He didn't anticipate a time in which he would pick being mentally present over being in his mind palace but John was making him do a lot of things he hadn't expected.

John eventually worked his way up to Sherlock's ankles and let his hands stay there, stroking the soft skin gently as he enjoyed the movie.  
_____

It shouldn't have been as embarrassing as it was, and yet, there he was, completely mortified. It wasn't as if falling asleep on the sofa was a capital crime, or anything, it was just that his father used to do it regularly as he grew older and John didn't need another thing reminding him how old he was. It made him feel out of control. Sherlock, the only person to witness this little lapse in decorum, shouldn't care. 

John straightened up and ran a hand through his hair, the locks now long enough to come down a bit over his forehead and ears and in dire need to of trim, before clearing his throat and looking over to find the man he was just thinking about watching him with what seemed to be slight concern. 

"I wasn't sleeping," John croaked, not sure why he'd gone in that direction.

"Alright," Sherlock said slowly, obviously still deciding whether or not to let on that he knew John was lying.

Sherlock looked at him like he knew John was crawling out of his skin. It was a strange thing to see someone recognise something he was unwilling to admit even to himself, the truth that underneath all the conscientiousness and polite conversation he had the aptitude to be quite frightening when cornered or caught off guard, that he was feeling cornered just then. He'd never acted on it, only letting his anger seep around the edges once in a blue moon, but knowing it was there, clawing under the surface, was enough. 

What John didn't realise was that this bit of himself that he saw so clearly in his father wasn't some secret monster that belonged completely to him, but a piece of humanity that was there in everyone. Everyone had a breaking point, everyone had fears, everyone could be frightening, even to themselves.

Sherlock had seen himself break in his own way, grow out of control, angry and withdrawn and willing to do anything to get what he wanted. He'd seen himself with painfully jutting ribs and bleeding gums and bruises where he was held down, his body rebelling even as his mind told it to be still, that it would all be over soon and oh, dear lord, would the payout be worth it. He'd seen himself as a foggy grimace in a broken bathroom mirror and the wolffish look in those eyes had changed him forever.

"John," Sherlock said, needing to break the silence if only to stop the shaking of his own hands.

John stood, right knee hurting as he did, and made his way to the kitchen.

"I'm fine, Sherlock," John said, face lit by the bluish light coming from the refrigerator.

He knew it was a lie, hell, both of them did, but it was a lie he'd lived with so long he honestly didn't want to know the truth. He tried to find something to eat, if only to have something to do, and was happy when he felt Sherlock pass behind him and head into his bedroom. He didn't have the energy for such intense interest right then.


	7. You Hardly Have To Explain Yourself To Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW: brief mentions of suicide

Ten years prior John had entertained the idea of having a girlfriend move in with him. It honestly seemed like a good idea at the time. She'd slept over twice and he'd been happy to wake up next to her. Of course, that was before the nightmares came back. It was a week into their seemingly comfortable cohabitation that things fell spectacularly apart. 

He was having a hard week, a boy he knew had committed suicide and he couldn't help but wonder if he'd missed the signs. The boy was young, only sixteen at the time, and he looked to John as a sort of mentor. He hung himself in the locker room and John had been the one to find him. His dead body was worse than any he'd seen in battle, not because of the state of it but rather the fact that it wasn't enemy fire or an unnoticed land mine, it was life.

That night, around two o'clock in the morning, he was awoken by his girlfriend from an intense nightmare and sat up in bed with the taste of sand in his mouth and the smell of Afghanistan in his nostrils.

She'd been concerned, obviously, but that's where things went wrong. Her concern turned into worry and a kind of manic curiosity, taking the fact that John wouldn't talk about it and seemed to shut down completely as a sign that he didn't feel comfortable sharing his turmoil with her. It was true that he didn't but it wasn't a singular thing. He didn't share it with anyone, not even his therapist. Not then, at least. He tried to explain that his reticence had nothing to do with her and that only seemed to fan the flames. She'd left that morning, her reason for ending the relationship being the way his eyes had looked 'dead'. 

He resigned himself then to a life without serious relationships, every time someone got close he would push them away. He tried to tell himself it didn't bother him. He got fairly good at that.

_____

The morning after falling asleep on the sofa John was hesitant to go downstairs. The last thing he wanted was to ruin his friendship with Sherlock. A friendship that he secretly, somewhere deep inside his psyche, wanted to become more. The casual touches doing things to his nervous system that even a man as stubborn as he couldn't ignore.

When he couldn't possibly put it off any longer he walked down the stairs two at a time in an attempt to appear casual. Sherlock was sitting in his chair looking through some papers and sipping tea.

"You'd better hurry with your shower if you don't want to be late," he said, looking up from what he was doing with a neutral face.

John sighed and steeled himself.

"Look," he started, "about last night."

"We all have our reasons for being apprehensive," Sherlock interrupted. "You hardly have to explain yourself to me, John."

John swallowed, stuck between relief and a sharp feeling in his chest that told him he thought he might be letting Sherlock down a bit. When he checked Sherlock's face he found it open and sympathetic in a way that spoke to understanding instead of pity. Utterly grateful for it he nodded and went for a shower.

_____

"Okay, everyone. I've been told by a close friend that my practice of not grading on a curve is rather barbaric and I've decided to change it," Sherlock said later that day to his class of students. "And your performance on this last test had told me you haven't yet grasped some of the material so I think we should go over it a bit more and retake the test."

Several students rested their heads on their desks in relief and others were already opening their books to try to pinpoint where they were lost and figure out how to salvage their grades.

The next thing Sherlock said was under his breath and spit out quickly in the hope that no one would hear. "I think we can all do a little better."

One student, a quiet girl who sat in the front row, smiled to him and he felt what he knew was a flush take to his neck. He pushed it aside and focussed on the chapter they were currently working on.

_____

After school, while on the tube going home, John nudged Sherlock with his elbow. The taller man looked over, abandoning his book, and raised his eyebrows in a silent question.

"I heard six more students signed up for the field trip," John said, his smile tight on his lips. "Good on you."

Sherlock shrugged and tried to push it off by changing the subject. "That Miller lad is in your class, isn't he?"

"Mmm," John agreed. "Bit of trouble."

"I think he's finally understanding the material. He spoke up in class for the first time today," Sherlock replied.

John was all out grinning then and as they pulled into the station and stood to exit he couldn't stop himself from giving Sherlock's hand a small squeeze. Sherlock let his fingers brush over John's wrist when he started to pull away and they both felt it like a small charge of electricity, swallowing in tandem at they took the stairs.

Once they were onto the street and heading in the direction of home Sherlock cleared his throat and spoke.

"Would you like to go out to dinner tonight?" he asked.

"Sure," John said. "I could use a day off cooking."

Sherlock kicked himself for obviously being too subtle but didn't say anything as they made their way up the stairs of 221b and set down their work things. He tried to ask if John thought it should be a date but he couldn't seem to get the question out of his throat so he resigned himself to once again being misunderstood.


	8. All That Matters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, sorry this has taken so long. Life has been a bit rough.

When Sherlock exited his room wearing what he knew was John's favorite shirt of his he found his friend sitting on the sofa fiddling with his keys. He stood watching John for a short while until he looked up, back from whatever trip he was taking in his mind. He looked tired for a second before standing and smiling gently.

"Shall we go?" he asked.

Sherlock nodded and slipped on his greatcoat, following him down the stairs and out into the freezing evening air. Once on the street John looked to him for guidance and he held his hand out for a cab. One showed up quickly and they both slid into the back seat as Sherlock gave the driver the address.

John was back to thinking too much. He didn't know how to read Sherlock, not when it came to things like this. He'd said he was married to his work when they'd just met but for god's sake, John could have sworn he was just asked on a date. He had no idea how to tell if it was and no clue whether he should object if Sherlock did want a date. They were friends, best friends, and this could ruin everything. Sherlock was taciturn and a genius and John was only good at two things at most; being a teacher and being a Soldier. 

He wouldn't even consider himself very good of a friend, at least not to most. It had been weeks since he last saw Mike or Molly outside work hours and even Greg had mentioned that he missed the last three pint nights at the Fox and Hound. So what, really, did he have to offer?

"We're here," Sherlock said, slipping some notes to the cabbie, something he never did, and exiting the cab.

John cleared his throat and followed him onto the kerb. In front of them was the plate glass window front of a restaurant and a sign that read 'Angelo's'. Sherlock walked with him to the front door and held it open for the older man as a tall man, the owner, came out of the back with a wide grin on his face.

"Sherlock!" he exclaimed.

Sherlock nodded and tried not to smile as they were ushered to a seat. John gave him a look that asked how he knew the large man and Sherlock licked his lips before speaking.

"John, this is Angelo, one of the best chefs around," Sherlock said.

"And Sherlock Holmes, the only reason I graduated," Angelo replied, large paw of a hand clapping Sherlock on the shoulder. "If it weren't for him I would have been washed from the program!"

"You were washed for the program," Sherlock said teasingly. 

"But your persistence got me into a better one. I'll bring a candle for the table," the man said. "More romantic for you and your date."

John watched the man go and licked his lips nervously.

"A candle?" he asked at last. "Is this meant to be a date?"

Sherlock looked down and began rearranging his utensils. "I may have suggested it while making the reservations."

It was then that John's nerves kicked in. Sherlock was young, almost twenty years his junior, and they worked together and lived together and if things went pear shaped-

"John, are you alright?" Sherlock asked, breaking John from his impending meltdown and making him nod roughly.

"I don't think we should date," he spit, bile rising up in his throat at the thought of losing Sherlock, the only person he'd really connected with in years.

"Right, of course," Sherlock said, face suddenly blank as he shut himself off as quickly as possible.

"I'm sorry, I just, you don't really want this," John tried pathetically. "You'll find someone closer to your own age."

Sherlock's lip curled for a second, the statement making him surprisingly more angry than he would have expected, but he didn't say anything as the waiter appeared with the candle and two menus. Sherlock spent longer than usual looking at said menu and eventually decided he wasn't hungry, a move that John suddenly felt uncomfortable overriding.

The two spent the evening in strained silence.

_____

John had agreed to go on the field trip with Sherlock and his students and as it was a week after their horrible disaster of a date he felt they'd become close enough again to have it not be awkward. To his credit, Sherlock hadn't acted as upset as John would have expected after that night, seeming to want to put it behind them and go back to how things had been before.

By the morning of the field trip they were back to comfortable banter and light touches and John was quite excited to be loading onto the bus early in the morning on their way to the school to pick up the children and go to the Science Museum in South Kensington. They sat in the back, trying to act like adults and failing as they made it across town.

"This is going to be fun," Sherlock said, smiling with a sort of honesty that made things happen in John's chest. "It's my favorite place in all of London."

John rested his hand on Sherlock's thigh and looked out the window opposite.

"I've never been," he said as they pulled up to the school.

"Really? That's horrible! It's huge and interesting and you could spend days there and not see the same thing! I tried to hide out in it overnight when I was a child but my parents found me," Sherlock said quickly.

John looked back at Sherlock and breathed deeply through his nose at the smile he found. How someone who put off such a cold façade could be so innocently happy was beyond him. He wanted to open up his arms and keep Sherlock nestled in them for the rest of time.

"Mr Watson!" Jeremy Willis cried as he got onto the bus. "I didn't know you were coming!"

John cleared his throat and looked up. "I'm always up for a bit of fun," he replied.

"Can I sit with you and Mr Holmes?" the boy asked.

John smiled and scooted close to Sherlock so the boy, barely a whisper of a child that had seemed to have missed the growth spurt his more fortunate classmates had endured the past summer, slid in next to them. Sherlock stiffened slightly as the boy grinned and started talking about his morning. The genius still had a hard time understanding how to talk to his students outside of school. He always seemed to look at them like they were aliens, especially the ones, in growing numbers, mind you, that seemed a bit sweet on him.

"What did you have for breakfast, Mr Holmes?" Jeremy asked effusively.

Sherlock looked a little frightened before admitting he'd only had a slice of toast.

"That's no good. My mum says breakfast is the most important meal of the day. What did you have Mr Watson?" Jeremy continued.

"He had egg with his toast," Sherlock interjected. "I wouldn't have any."

Jeremy cocked his head to the side as Sherlock stood to talk to the group.

"Do you live together?" Jeremy asked John in a conspiratorial whisper.

"Yes," John replied. "We're flatmates."

"Oh," Jeremy whispered. "We all thought you were shagging."

John choked a bit and Jeremy gave a rare wicked smile and got his permission slip out of his bag to hand it to Sherlock.

_____

Once they were into the large building Sherlock had become a little more used to the children's excitement and was breathing more easily as he led them into the first room, the one with a model of human DNA. John sat back a bit and watched as he explained what he found fascinating about DNA. It was interesting to see the way the students actually stopped talking and looked at Sherlock. It really was impossible to ignore him when he became so honestly interested. When he was interested he was interesting, the giddyness of knowledge making him near incandescent.

Over the next two hours the group went from room to room in a sort of pied piper line behind Sherlock as his students stayed close to listen to his ideas and enjoy the fact that their teacher, the one who had been so distant at the start of school, talked directly to them, as if seeing most of them for the first time.

"You did this to him," Mike said, walking up next to John and reminding the teacher that he'd mostly ignored his old friend for the whole trip so far.

"Did what?" John asked.

"I'm not sure. That's the thing. None of us are sure. He came with a warning label, you know. Something along the lines of 'does not play well with others'. You seem to have scraped it away for the most part," Mike replied with a small, genuine smile.

"I haven't done a thing," John objected, cheeks feeling hot.

"You reminded him why he wanted to do all this in the first place. You've been a fantastic mentor. And you're in love with him," Mike said quietly.

The last bit hit John right in the chest and for a second he couldn't breathe. Fuck. Buggering fuck. It was true. He loved Sherlock and he was damned to it. He swallowed and looked away when Sherlock caught his eye for a second.

"Not that it matters," John said weakly.

"Oh, John, I think it's all that matters," Mike said before walking away.

John looked up to see Sherlock bending down to show something to a student before the lot of them shrieked happily and Sherlock's deep laugh joined theirs. Damned.


	9. Idiot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> These idiots.

John was surprised to find Sherlock was exhausted. The man never really slept so when he started dozing off on the cab ride home from the school John knew he'd really worn himself out. By the end of the day there wasn't one student that looked at Sherlock with anything less than awe. John was sure they had no idea how animated he could be as he'd seen how seriously Sherlock conducted his classes. At the museum he was like a child. It was wonderful.

"Sherlock," John said. "We've made it."

Sherlock sat up a bit straighter and blinked his eyes open as John paid the driver and got out. John held the door for him and Sherlock walked into the building and took the steps slower than he ever had. John just walked behind him, keeping pace.

"I'm hungry," Sherlock admitted as they walked through the front door to the flat.

It was the first time John had heard him say it unprovoked and he took pity by going straight to the fridge and getting out makings for a couple of sandwiches.

"Go lay on the sofa and watch some telly while I make us some food," John said as he tried not to stare at Sherlock's sleepy demeanor, it was rather adorable.

"Thank you, John," Sherlock whispered as he sank into the cushions and closed his eyes.

John swallowed down hard on the knot in his throat and went back to spreading what was left of their pub cheese on some rye. It wasn't a masterpiece but it would do. After he'd added some lettuce and condiments he grabbed a bag of crisps from the cabinet and walked over to join Sherlock on the sofa.

"Up you get," he murmured.

Sherlock sat up and rubbed his eyes before picking up his sandwich and starting to eat.

"This sandwich is surprisingly good. Even though, we need to go shopping," Sherlock said with a loud sigh.

"Yeah, love, we'll go tomorrow," John said without realising the slip.

Sherlock stilled and then went back to eating. John looked over at him for a second before understanding what he'd done, but by then it was too late. He couldn't take it back and he wasn't even sure if he wanted to. He cleared his throat and tried to fill the space with something other than silence.

"You were wonderful today," he said.

Well, that wasn't so bad.

"What do you mean?" Sherlock asked, eyebrows knit.

"With the students. You were open and honest and funny," John replied.

"I just pretended they were like you," Sherlock said softly. "You always think I'm funny no matter what I say. Your sense of humor is just as atrocious as theirs."

John chuckled and elbowed him in the side. Sherlock finished eating the sandwich and curled up on the half of the sofa that was open in what looked like an incredibly uncomfortable position. John leaned back and patted his thigh until Sherlock unfurled like a cat and laid his head in his lap.

"Want to watch a bit of telly before you hit the sack?" John asked as he felt around for the remote.

Sherlock nodded a bit thought he remained stiff as John tuned to telly on and rested a hand on his shoulder. The hand soon found its way into his thick curls and Sherlock made a kind of whining noise.

"Are you alright?" John asked, concern colouring his voice.

"You can't do this," Sherlock said, his voice pained. 

"Do what?" John asked, pushing Sherlock's fringe back from his forehead to look into his eyes.

"Act like we're together when we're not. Act like you want to touch me when you don't," Sherlock replied.

John let his hand fall to his side and Sherlock sat up quickly, pulling his knees up and hugging them.

"I didn't know-" John began.

"You did. You knew. So just stop," Sherlock interjected.

"Okay," John replied, his mouth feeling dry and his head spinning. "Okay, I'm sorry."

"What's wrong with me?" Sherlock asked, and God, John could have sworn he saw tears in his eyes before he looked away.

"What do you mean? There's nothing wrong with you!" John demanded, unhinged by the obvious pain Sherlock was feeling.

"I thought I could show you. I thought you would see me," Sherlock whispered.

John was breathing roughly through his nose as he felt emotion welling up inside himself. Sherlock was hurt. Sherlock was hurt and he was the cause of it.

"I see you. Sherlock, listen to me. I see you," he said, reaching up to rub Sherlock's back.

"I can't be older. This is me. I'm sorry," Sherlock said, voice breaking.

And maybe it was the fact that he was tired, more tired than he'd been in a long time, or maybe it was that John's hands were back on him, but either way he broke down. He broke completely.

"Jesus, come here," John said, pulling Sherlock into his arms and kissing his forehead as he shook.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock whimpered.

"No, I'm sorry. I didn't mean you needed to be anything different," John said as he rocked Sherlock slowly.

"Then why don't you want me?" Sherlock asked. "You called me love and you played with my hair and you held my hand the other day and you still don't want me."

"That's not what I was trying to say. I've just gone and buggered it all up. I meant...it's just you can do so much better than me, can't you see that?" John asked weakly. "Can't you see how gorgeous you are? How brilliant?"

Sherlock looked up into John's eyes and sniffed loudly before giggling.

"Oh, John, you idiot," he said, leaning forward to press their lips together.

And it was wet and salty from Sherlock's tears and it was sloppy from eagerness and lack of experience and it was downright amazing. When Sherlock finally pulled away John's eyes were closed and he took a moment to open them.

"You love me," Sherlock said, a smile on his lips. "You love me and you're an idiot and you think I couldn't love you. Idiot."

"Yeah, well, you can stop calling me an idiot now," John said in what he knew wasn't a very stern voice, smiling as he was.


	10. I Woke Up Early, and other lies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here we get to see a bit more into why John has such deep seeded insecurities.

Sherlock leaned in close, eyes on John's as he breathed deeply. John brushed his thumb across Sherlock's cheek and smiled.

"We'd better get you to bed," he whispered.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and turned so he could rest with his back against John's chest. John wrapped an arm around him and breathed in against his neck.

"Will you come with me?" Sherlock asked in a soft whisper.

"I don't know if that's the best idea," John replied, swallowing roughly and holding Sherlock tighter without realising it.

"I can go back to sleep immediately after being woken up. Your nightmares won't scare me away," Sherlock said, looking at the far wall and holding his breath for an answer.

"Maybe another night," John replied. "But I'll tuck you in."

"That would be nice," Sherlock said, humming happily before standing up.

John followed him to his bedroom and watched as he slipped out of his trousers and shirt, pulled on a pair of pajama bottoms and an inside out t-shirt and climbed under the covers. Just as he'd settled John sat on the edge of the bed next to him.

"See you in the morning," he said, voice stiff and hopeful. It would kill him if Sherlock was upset that he wasn't going to stay.

"Mmm," Sherlock agreed, squeezing John's hand before switching off the light and closing his eyes.

John hesitated before getting up and leaving the room. He stood in the doorway watching as Sherlock slowly fell asleep.

_____

The next morning when Sherlock got out of bed he could smell pancakes and bacon. John was in the kitchen, whistling to himself as he cooked.

"Did you go to Tesco already?" Sherlock asked, brushing sleep from his eyes as he headed to the loo.

"Yeah, I, uh, I woke up early," John said, the lie being caught, but not acknowledged, by Sherlock.

The truth involved him staying up all night cleaning the flat and writing, the anxiety of the 'morning after' keeping him from being able to sleep. It was to be expected, he supposed. This was a big change and he'd never done change well. He stopped cleaning and closed his eyes, letting his head rest against the wall as he breathed deeply.

Sherlock hadn't changed his mind. Sherlock had smiled at him and hadn't seemed hesitant or unhappy. 

That had been his worst fear, the idea that after things had settled down, after a good night's sleep, Sherlock would walk out of his room and frown at him, swallow and tell him they needed to talk.

It was strange, he'd never had a feeling quite close to this before. It wasn't that he didn't care if things went well with other...lovers, it was more that he hadn't felt it so intensely. 'This is it,' he thought. 'This is real.'

Before he could think anymore on it Sherlock was exiting the loo in a plume of steam, skin reddened by the heat of the shower and hair damp. The arousal that raised its proverbial, and not so proverbial, head at the sight was only new in that it had come back, as if out of a deep slumber, when Sherlock had arrived in his life. 

He tried not to think about the fact that sex had seemed too complicated for a long time before then. It was a tricky sort of lie that he told himself, one that he knew wasn't true yet held as a sort of armour against the rest of the world. Too complicated sounded much better than physically improbable.

It wasn't impossible, that much he knew to be true, it was just so fleeting and ill mannered that the kind of man that John was couldn't stand to be confronted by it anymore than he could stand to tell a whole room of people about his nightmares. That was the impossibility, facing it.

Every time his therapist brought it up he cringed inwardly. 'How is your love life, John?' she'd asked. 'Have any dates lately?'

That was the reason he stopped seeing her. The impotence was bad enough but being asked so directly about it was beyond cruel.

Now, though...now he was truly panicking. Sure, he'd been able to wank with surprising success, and result, in the last months, but what was to happen when he was stripped naked, in more than one sense, in front of this man was beyond him. The thought of it so unimaginable it felt like an empty chasm, like a crack that stretched out so far to be almost black in its depth. And he was to traverse it. He knew he must. Still, it was daunting.

Sherlock must have seen something in his eyes and been unable to decipher it, as he stood in the hallway just staring at John. For a moment neither of them breathed, then John went to meet him and ran his fingers into wet tendrils of hair and gripped gently. Sherlock choked in a breath and let his eyelids flutter closed as John leaned forward and lifted himself onto his toes to press a rough kiss to the younger man's lips.

When they pulled apart Sherlock's cheeks had colour high on them and he chewed his bottom lip before leaning down for a quick peck and speaking.

"I'd better get into some clothes. And the bacon is about to burn," he said, emotion somewhere between fondness and apathy, a line he seemed to skate quite well.

"Shit," John muttered, turning to not only switch the burner off but move the pan to the cool one beside it.

When Sherlock reemerged minutes later it was to a table covered in food and the sight of John eating ravenously while reading the paper. He paused and adjusted his hair once more before walking to take the seat adjacent and pick up one of the almost overdone pieces of bacon. In truth it was how he liked his bacon, just this side of carcinogenic.

John set the paper down and picked up his fork.

"We should go out to dinner again. A proper date this time," he said abruptly.

Sherlock took another bite of bacon and nodded. "I'd like that."

"Fine. Good," John said, licking his lips as he slid his feet to rest atop Sherlock's.

Sherlock covered his grin with a well-timed piece of toast.


	11. Intent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Before John and Sherlock finally go on their date they have to wait a whole day. This brings on a case of nerves in John and heightens Sherlock's boredom.

The day seemed to drag on forever. It was unlikely that the makeup of time and space had been altered but the fact that he found himself looking at the clock nearly every ten minutes made Sherlock wish it had, if only for the excuse. 

John had agreed to dinner with him, a date, and it had made his entire day feel somewhat off kilter. That and the fact that the second he began to speak, no matter which class it was during, his students became quiet. A new phenomenon entirely as they had seemed intent on talking over him for at least the first ten minutes of every class before their field trip. 

"So, as we found out last week," he began-

_____

At the end of school Sherlock came to John's classroom to meet him, as he always did, and stood in the doorway watching John talk with a young girl. He recognised her as a student and tried to listen in on the conversation. She was distraught.

"It's perfectly fine," John said soothingly. "Let's go see Ms Hooper."

The girl took in a deep breath and nodded, standing with John and looking at her own feet as she followed him out of the room. Sherlock ducked aside and let them pass, nodding as John held up a finger to tell he him wouldn't be long, and then went to sit at John's desk to wait for him to return.

John's things were on the desk and he couldn't help himself from picking up the man's mobile and pressing the home key. The password, or at least the four digit code, was obvious to say the least. It was invasive and he knew in some closed off part of his brain that it could quite possibly get him into trouble with John, but satisfaction brought the cat back, after all, and he was feeling quite curious. Put aside that it was his natural state and a seemed a rather good reason to go ahead with it.

The first thing he did was open the photo app and go straight into the recently taken photos. It really shouldn't have surprised him so much that he was the unknowing subject of them, as he'd asked John to take some pictures of the field trip for the end of year book, but it did.

The first album held at least seventy-eight pictures. Seventy-eight. The majority of them were group photos but fifteen or so were fuzzy pictures of Sherlock by himself, John obviously not wanting him to know he was taking them and not really having complete control over the zoom function, technophobe that he was.

Sherlock exited the album and opened another, going further back in time and seeing a pattern. The pattern was of course poorly-timed, pathetically zoomed, overly-cropped, pictures of himself. He would scoff if he hadn't himself once printed out a copy of John's school yearbook photo and spent the afternoon trimming it carefully and affixing it to the head of da Vinci's Vitruvian man. 

Next Sherlock went to another album, this one labeled 'favorites', and he smiled to himself at the twenty or so pictures he found there. Most were of him, one in particular of himself sleeping in a cab, but there were others that he hadn't expected. What interested him the most, as he somehow hadn't realised it was being taken, was one of him smiling at a point just above the camera.

Why that was touching he wasn't sure. Maybe it was that he didn't really have any pictures of himself smiling. Quite possibly it was that he knew the smile was because of something John had said or done, there being a quality to it that seemed John-inspired.

Sherlock heard the man approaching and closed the mobile before slipping it back into his ataché and pulling his own out. He was tapping away on it when John came into the room seconds later.

"Ready to go?" he asked, exhaustion etched in his brow.

Sherlock nodded, not looking up from his mobile, and stood to follow John out to the street and to the tube. They walked in silence until they made it in and found two empty seats next to each other.

"How did your classes go today?" John asked, not sure whether there was to be a change in how they acted around each other, their lunch earlier that day giving him no guidance on the subject.

"You're nervous. Why are you nervous?" Sherlock asked, finally looking up from his mobile to scrutinize John with intelligent eyes.

"I'm not nervous," John lied, and then with a sigh, "okay, I'm a bit nervous. I haven't done this in a while, this dating thing."

"I've never dated anyone," Sherlock said. "So I don't think I'll be able to help."

John's face must have shown his shock because Sherlock sighed, rolling his eyes dramatically, and went on.

"I'm not a virgin, if that's what you're thinking, I've just never been interested in anyone before."

It was partially true. He'd not been interested in anyone that had been interested back, at least not for more than sex. There had been Victor, of course, and Sherlock had been keen on something more with him, but that hadn't turned out to be anything good and after a while he'd given up. 

It was rare that he had interest in being around anyone, thinking most people were worse than stupid in that they were mind numbingly dull. Every lover he'd had was shown the door the second they were done, his mind and fingers itching for a cigarette as the calm that sexual release had brought on quickly faded. Some had tried to stick around, bum a fag, talk shop, whether drugs or science, but they'd left unhappy and not returned. 

That wasn't a problem though, it was easy enough to stop by some club and pick up a desperate junkie, like himself at one time, or an older man who thought what he wanted was perverse. Perversion was a sliding scale, he figured, and nothing surprised him. The ones that wanted a quick fuck in a back alley were just as useful as the ones that wanted to pull his hair and call him a slut. Useful but dull. 

Dull was one thing that John Watson was decidedly not. 

John took a deep breath and rested his hand on Sherlock's knee, something he had done a million times before, the feel of his expensive trousers somewhat calming as the cubical they were in grew steadily full. It suddenly seemed if not more important at least more intentional.


	12. Doing So Well

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sex. A date and sex.

There were a few hours before they'd planned on going out to dinner so they laid their things before the sofa and sat to correct tests. It had always been something Sherlock had hated doing, going so far as to skim them and once to have the students correct their own tests. Neither venture had been a good idea. Somehow when he was with John it wasn't so bad, something to do with pheromones he supposed. It was always grounding being around John and every time he awoke to find the man gone it was a slap to the face.

When I say awoke I'm referring to the times when Sherlock would be deep in his mind palace going through papers or boxes, looking for something he needed but couldn't remember why, and would look to his left, growing fully conscious once again, to find the place where John had been sat empty. He would often just go back into his mind palace immediately, the thought of being conscious while John wasn't there to fuss over him being repugnant most times, and only return when he heard the man in the room.

He'd got a dirty look or two about it before, the immediate response to his "I told you to toss me a pen" was an exasperated sigh. John thought he didn't care enough to monitor when he left the flat, or rather not to listen when he said he was on his way out, but that wasn't true. He just couldn't always manage to hear, the paths in his mind so intricate and bunched together that the hum of the thing often blotted out the rest of the world. Sometimes he thought that if John could hear his brain, the constant whir of action, he wouldn't have to sleep with the radio on low.

John was talking to him then, a hand on top of his where it had come to a halt, red biro scratching meaningless circles on the bottom of some student's work as he twitched unknowingly. He cleared his throat and sat up, tucking the pen behind his ear and looking over at John.

"Is it time?" he asked, not meaning the words to be imbued with an ominous tone.

John smiled and nodded so they both got back into their coats and left the pile of schoolwork and random biro by the sofa. The ride to Angelo's, as Sherlock had insisted they had to return, the feeling inside him that he needed to overwrite the bad experience overwhelming him, was quiet but calm as John rested his hand over Sherlock's and trailed slow circles in his skin. Sherlock was reminded of the red biro and its circled path and wondered absently if this brought John comfort or concentration.

The cab pulled up and John paid before Sherlock could, eliciting a small frown from the younger man, and they made it into the restaurant and found a table close to the rear, John taking the spot with his back to the wall on instinct and Sherlock not minding a bit.

When the waiter came Sherlock stopped him before he could speak and requested a candle. 

"We're on a date," he sputtered clumsily.

"I thought you were married to your work," John said with a soft smile as the candle was presented as well as two menus.

"You're the only reason I've kept my job," Sherlock replied. "So...unless you don't want it to be a date."

"No, I do, I just...I haven't been on a date in a long time. I'm not sure how this is supposed to go," John admitted.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and placed his hand over John's. "Just make me eat like you usually do and I'll be a brat like I usually am."

John snorted and grinned. "So a date with you is like any other night?" he asked, turning his hand so he could caress Sherlock's wrist.

"Well, I was hoping to get laid, but-" Sherlock began with a nervous smile.

"Jesus," John exclaimed, biting his lip and gripping Sherlock's wrist.

"Not quite," Sherlock replied, a flush moving up his neck, as the waiter arrived. "John will have the chicken carbonara and I'll have the spaghetti parmigiana. And a bottle of red. Angelo knows what I like."

The waiter nodded and left and John grinned at the table. 

"Are you trying to get me drunk, Sherlock?" he asked playfully.

"You have missed the pub," Sherlock said.

John gawped for a second. "You noticed?"

"I know your schedule. I know you missed out on the last few pub nights because I needed help with my lesson plan. I'm not completely oblivious," Sherlock replied.

"It wasn't that I missed getting drunk," John said. "I barely even get tipsy anymore."

"You weren't there for the small talk," Sherlock said.

"Oi! Quit pointing out my flaws," John teased.

Sherlock smiled and took a deep breath, the evening going better than he'd hoped.

_____

By the time they were done with dinner John had only had one glass of wine where Sherlock had drank three. John wasn't drunk really, just buzzed and a little softer around the edges, and neither was Sherlock. They decided to walk home and made their way arm in arm. By the time they were to 221 Sherlock was resting against John and clutching his coat possessively.

"John," he said as he closed the door behind him, cheeks rosy from the wine and the cold. "This is where you kiss me."

John licked his lips and leaned in close, his nose brushing up Sherlock's neck to tease at his earlobe before taking it between his lips and sucking gently. Sherlock let out a stuttered 'oh' and closed his eyes.

"You're drunk," John murmured against his skin, lips parting to graze teeth intently.

"You're handsome," Sherlock said weakly. "Maybe a little drunk."

Sherlock smirked as he looked down to where John's fingers were on the buttons of his shirt and John surged forward, pressing up on his toes, and kissed him roughly once, twice, and then one last time before pulling away and dragging him to the downstairs bedroom.

John's brain was fizzy, energetic and scattered in the most wonderful way, and Sherlock was pliant and giggling so he pushed aside the fact that though arousal coursed through him it didn't seem to find a place where it was needed most, his cock still completely uninterested in the goings on.

"John," Sherlock groaned as he was pushed back on the bed. "John, hurry up."

"There's the brat I've been looking for," John quipped, undoing the laces on Sherlock's shoes and pulling them and his socks off so he could start on his trousers.

"These are fine wool," Sherlock pouted, "and I'm going to poke a hole right through them."

John snorted and undid his flies before pulling his trousers off and rubbing at his cock through his expensive pants. Sherlock nearly arched right out of his grip, hips thrusting into the first thing they could.

"Condoms in the drawer," Sherlock panted, waving animatedly at the bedside table. "So you don't have to leave."

"Such a thoughtful lad," John said as he grinned and went to grab the unopened box and the bottle of lube beside it and retuned to the foot of the bed. 

Sherlock had wrestled his shirt off over his head and flopped down with a loud sigh, colour high on his cheeks and hair a mess. John ran his hands up the younger man's inner thighs and watched as his eyelids fluttered.

"Say it again?" Sherlock asked softly, and it was a request as opposed to a demand.

John kicked off his shoes and socks and climbed into the space between Sherlock's legs, leaning down to kiss along his taught stomach and chest.

"That you're thoughtful?" John asked with the smirk of a man who'd just found someone's tell. "Or that you're my lad?"

Sherlock breathed a gust of air out through his nose and tried to speak, his voice not only leaving him but sticking some odd sort of dying animal sound in its place. John just chuckled and licked and kissed at his skin before rolling his hips so Sherlock's erection was rubbed against his stomach through three layers of clothing. Sherlock shuddered and closed his eyes.

"Thoughtful lad. My thoughtful, clever lad," John said, turning his hips back and forth to give Sherlock an amazing amount of friction.

He pulled back, standing again,and Sherlock whined, a whine that soon turned into a whimper when his pants were pulled off and John deftly rolled a condom onto his leaking prick.

John was amazing. John was a marvel. John was taking his cock between his lips and it was unlike anything he'd felt before. Bloody fireworks went off in his head and he twitched his hips and John was suddenly pressing and rubbing with one genius finger at his arsehole and by God, he wanted it.

John pressed the tip of his finger in and pushed a great deal of lube in with it. Sherlock shivered a bit as it trickled down to the bed beneath him and then moaned as John started to pump it. In and out and deeper and, Christ, if Sherlock's whole consciousness didn't revolve around that single slick digit.

He was choking off screams as John sucked him down and added a second finger, muffled sounds falling from bitten lips, and John was rutting against the edge of the bed in an attempt to get hard. It felt good, it really did, but it just wouldn't go further than that.

"John! John, please, I need to come," Sherlock panted. "Please let me come!"

John growled around his cock and ran his fingers in circles around the bundle of nerves deep inside him and Sherlock yelped and thrust involuntarily and John had to pull off to sputter and finish him with his hand as his cock began to pulse and twitch, steadily filling the condom.

"That's it, Sherlock," John cooed as he worked Sherlock through what was an undoubtably intense orgasm. "Doing so well, lad, just like that."

Sherlock whimpered a bit and nearly melted into the sheets until he wasn't moving at all and John kissed both of his knees and carefully removed the condom, going to the loo to get a warm wet flannel and coming back to find Sherlock nearly asleep. While John cleaned him Sherlock's brain was trying to grasp the concept of post-coital closeness and not finding any sort of remembrance of longing in its mind palace. It was strange to have a want, no, need, that he hadn't had before.

When John slipped out of his clothes and climbed onto the bed next to Sherlock the younger man found himself with his arms and legs wrapped around him as he nosed as his neck and chest and then, yes, underarms. John giggled and pulled the covers over them and Sherlock wrapped himself around John more thoroughly and sighed.

"I could suck you," Sherlock murmured against his warm skin.

"No...that's okay," John said, heart beating fast as he waited for rejection, for some sort of look or question or comment on the fact that he wasn't even hard after all that. He'd dated a woman once that was convinced after their first time that he must not be attracted to her and they'd never recovered.

"Okay," Sherlock said, nuzzling a bit before falling swiftly asleep.

It took John quite a while to fall asleep, but the time he spent awake was with a tight smile on his lips over the man in his arms. This man that took what he had to give and didn't question it. This man that didn't push. This genius man.

_____

It must have been nearing morning as the sun was starting to come up and the street lamps had gone off. John still had his eyes closed when he started to wake and kept them closed as he slowly circled his hips. By the time he realised what he was doing Sherlock was waking up as well, shifting a bit and humming. 

"John," Sherlock finally mumbled, voice rough with sleep.

"Mmm," John replied, arm wrapping tightly around the younger man's waist as he slowly ground his cock into his lower back.

"You're-" Sherlock began.

"Yes," John said.

"Would you like me to-" Sherlock tried, his own prick growing hard as he felt precome spread across his skin.

"No," John said, breath coming in hot puffs against Sherlock's skin.

"So just like this?" Sherlock asked.

"Mmm," John agreed.

Sherlock gripped his own cock and rolled his hips, letting out a small grunt that turned into a moan and John kissed his neck.

"Gorgeous lad," John whispered as he rolled his hips and frotted against Sherlock's skin.

Sherlock whimpered and John went on.

"You like that, don't you? Being my lad. Being my sweet boy. You like me wanting to take care of you."

Sherlock nodded and his fist began to move faster, pulling his foreskin back to reveal his slick head.

"What else would you like, Sherlock? Hmm?" John asked in a soothing tone as he felt himself getting closer to climax.

"Wanna be your boy," Sherlock whimpered. "Wanna be your smart boy."

John growled and kissed his neck roughly. "Yes, yes. You're my smart boy, aren't you? Clever as you are. And I'm going to care for you."

"Yes, John," Sherlock whimpered. "Please."

John gripped Sherlock's hip and fucked into the hot slick place between them and listened to the little plaintiff noises Sherlock was making as he got close to the edge.

"Are you going to come for me? Will my sweet lad come for me?" John asked, voice still somehow soothing as it grew rough with arousal and exertion.

"Yes, oh, yes, oh ,oh, oh, I'm coming," Sherlock said as he fucked his fist and clenched his eyes closed and came into his hand.

John rolled his hips one more time and gritted his teeth and he was coming as well, his cock pulsing all over Sherlock's back and his brain buzzing with oxytocin.

After a while they both stilled and Sherlock cleared his throat.

"Can you hand me something to clean off with?" he asked, voice soft and content.

John grabbed his undershirt from the floor and went to wipe Sherlock's back before the man stopped him.

"For my hand," he explained. "Leave that."

"You want me to leave my come to dry all over your back?" John asked, confused.

"Yes," Sherlock said with his chin held high.

John snorted but lay back down beside him, kissing his shoulder gently. Sherlock relaxed and let his eyes fall closed.

"Love you," John whispered softly.

"Mmm. Love you too," Sherlock replied.


	13. Arousing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smut, a breakthrough and then smut.

They woke less than an hour later, Sherlock nearly shellacked to John with the earlier spend and wincing as he pulled away sleepily. He made a little whining noise and John chuckled, eyes still closed, and kissed his shoulder.

"You knew that was going to happen," he said, voice rumbling, "git."

Sherlock frowned and turned over, pulling his arms in on himself and burying his face against John's neck. "I thought I was your good boy."

"Doesn't mean you're not a git," John replied, rubbing along the taller man's back gently.

"You will, though," Sherlock asked then, his voice so soft and timid as to be barely heard, "take care of me?"

John gripped a handful of curls and nodded, licking his lips and kissing Sherlock's knit brow. "Course I will. Always have, haven't I?"

"Yes, John," Sherlock replied, body relaxing as he reached one hand around to scratch at the dried patches on his back.

"Alright, you, up," John said with a sigh. "Let's get into the shower."

Sherlock rubbed his eyes and stretched as John pulled the covers back and went to turn the water on. By the time he'd turned the spray on full Sherlock had shuffled in and pressed himself against his back, chin scratching his shoulder with newly acquired stubble. It took a moment before he would let go enough for them to step into the tub and get under the spray.

"Turn around," John murmured, and Sherlock did.

He let his hands rest on the wall as John lathered some soap in a flannel and started to rub away at his back.

"Next time I want you to come on my face," Sherlock said softly, head bowed as if in prayer. "Then my mouth. We should get tested today so you can come in my arse. I know a place that can have it done in a day. And then my chest."

John laughed nervously and wrapped his arms around to pull Sherlock against him.

"I'm not twenty eight, you know," he said, wanting to say more and feeling his nerves start up again.

"I don't care if it takes a year, I'm just telling you I have a list," Sherlock said.

"Yeah, okay," John replied, breathing deeply then pulling away to get the shampoo.

"John," Sherlock said, giving him pause.

"Hmm?" John asked, heart jack rabbiting.

"I don't care if it takes a year," Sherlock said again, the intent tone of his words giving John the impression he wouldn't ever bring the subject up again.

John kissed him on the shoulder with a soft 'thank you' and poured some shampoo into his hand.

_____

On the tube on the way to work John reached his hand out and pulled Sherlock closer to him by linking their arms. Sherlock had honestly been wondering if it was only something he'd do in public after a glass of wine and found himself flushing and worrying his cuff.

"Are we, that is, are you my..." Sherlock tried.

"I don't like the word boyfriend," John admitted. "I'm hardly a boy anymore. Maybe partner?"

"Partner," Sherlock said, trying it out for show as he'd already said it to himself a million times in his own head.

"Yeah," John said with a small nod.

"Good, right, good, then," Sherlock said, voice choked with emotion.

John smiled to his reflection in the window and bit his lip.

_____

After school John sat in his classroom for ten minutes before getting up and going to find Sherlock. It wasn't like him to not show up, he'd been doing so for months, standing in the doorway waiting for John to finish with one student or another. In truth he wasn't really worried, just curious. He started down the hall to Sherlock's classroom to see what he could be getting up to.

Moments later he stood in the doorway, shocked. In the classroom Sherlock was sitting at his desk with six students flanking him as he explained something out of their text book. He smiled and looked up at a girl who asked a question and nodded emphatically.

"What else?" he asked.

"I...I don't know," she replied.

"Not a problem, let's see what the book says," Sherlock said with a soft smile.

The girl breathed out in relief and bent over to see where Sherlock would point next.

John must have stood there for a whole half hour before Sherlock saw him and told the students he'd show them the rest the next day.

"You've got the book. Do some more reading if you like," he said.

The students started talking to each other and milled out, several of them saying hello to John as they passed. John walked into the room and closed the door behind himself. Sherlock grabbed his things and they headed for the tube. 

Sherlock was oddly silent the whole way but retained the soft smile he'd worn for his students. John laced their fingers together and grinned. Sherlock, his Sherlock, had finally broken through. He'd finally realised what it was like to spark the flame in students and watch them actively seek out answers.

When they made it through the front door of their flat Sherlock began pacing.

"Sorry about that," he said with a grin. "Got a little carried away. The last test went phenomenally! The score of the whole class has gone up. I think they're really starting to get it! Sarah told me today that she never knew how interesting chemical reactions could be and asked if we could do more demonstrations next week and-"

Sherlock was cut off as John surged forward and pressed their lips together in a bruising kiss. When John pulled away he was grinning and brushing his thumb across Sherlock's cheek as he pushed him against the door.

"I'm so bloody proud of you," he said, gushing a bit. "So bloody proud."

Sherlock felt the heat that had started in his cheeks grow and looked down shyly.

"Well, it's just, I've found that," he tried, trailing off at the end.

"Yeah?" John asked, grinning wolfishly and licking his lips, the motion lewd.

"John," Sherlock panted.

"Hmm?" John pressed, leaning forward to nose at Sherlock's neck.

"I..." Sherlock whimpered. "You, you find it arousing that I, that my students want to learn?"

"I find it arousing that you're excited," John corrected, pulling Sherlock closer by his belt loops.

"Oh," Sherlock said in an exhale.

"Yes, oh," John replied as he ground his erection, and wasn't that a wonderful thing, against Sherlock's thigh.

"John," Sherlock moaned, gripping uselessly at the older man's short cropped hair.

John gripped his arse and pulled him close enough to feel his cock press into his stomach and Sherlock's head fell back to the door with a dull thump.

"What do you want, hmm?" John asked in a way that made it clear he was in complete control of the situation, something that made Sherlock shiver. "Tell me what you want."

"F-fuck me," Sherlock whispered, voice rough.

"Oh, naughty boy," John growled, taking a fistful of curls and pulling Sherlock's head down so he could lick into his mouth.

The keening noise Sherlock made as he pulled away and slid to his knees had John's prick throbbing in his denims. Sherlock kept his eyes locked on John's as he unbuttoned his trousers and pulled the zip down. John's breath hitched as he drew his cock out and licked the head.

"Christ," he panted. "That's a good lad."

Sherlock hummed and took nearly half of John's prick into his mouth in one go, eyes looking up with a twisted version of innocence. John groaned and brushed his thumb over Sherlock's bottom lip as he took more in, pushing forward as he pressed along the underneath with the flat of his tongue. It was unreal, the way he looked up at John with wide eyes as he sucked and pulled off. John pressed his thumb into Sherlock's mouth as he rested back on his heels and the man latched on and sucked roughly.

John's heart was pounding and he shivered at the combined sight of Sherlock and the cool air on his spit slicked cock before urging the man up and following him to the downstairs bedroom with his prick bobbing obscenely between his legs.

When Sherlock made it to the bed he sat on the edge and looked up to John for guidance.

"Get your kit off," John said confidently. "I want to see you."

Sherlock's eyes closed momentarily as his fingers started to clumsily work the buttons on his shirt and he pushed off his shoes. His fingers wouldn't seem to listen to him and his head was already a bit fuzzy and before he knew it John was undressed and looking down at him with a fond smile and he hadn't even managed to get the bloody shirt off.

"Need some help there?" John asked softly.

Sherlock looked down guiltily and clenched his fist before shaking his hands and grunting in frustration. John soothed him and took over, quickly divesting him and starting in on his trousers.

"It's okay, love. Everyone needs help every now and then," John said softly as he helped him out of his trousers and pants and pushed him down to lay back on the bed, taking one foot and then the other to remove his socks.

Sherlock whispered his thanks and took a deep breath as John ran his hands down his inner thighs. John drew away for a moment to go get a condom and some lube but was back soon enough and starting to prepare Sherlock. The first push in only made his cock harder as Sherlock's body grasped his finger before relaxing.

Soon he was pumping three fingers in and out and Sherlock was whining high in his throat. When he felt the last of the resistance give way he removed his fingers and rolled the condom on.

"Hurry!" Sherlock said with a whimper.

"Pushy," John said, leaning forward with his cock in hand until the head pressed through and into Sherlock's slick heat.

Sherlock moaned as John pressed deeper and pulled him closer so he could wrap his long legs around his waist. It was intoxicating, the way that Sherlock gripped him and nearly impaled himself on his cock.

"You're so bloody gorgeous," John growled, pulling at Sherlock's prick roughly. "My gorgeous lad."

"John," Sherlock cried, arching into his touch.

"That's it, fuck my fist," John encouraged, running his thumb across the wet tip and pumping his hips.

"Oh, God, John," Sherlock moaned.

John was close to the edge, something he might be concerned over if it weren't for the fact that Sherlock was already sweaty and nearly incoherent. He could feel the trembling in the younger man's thighs and his arsehole tightened slightly.

"Do you need to come, Sherlock?" he asked as he bent to kiss the man's thigh.

"Yes, please," Sherlock begged.

"Go ahead, then," John murmured, stroking him at a faster pace and focusing on the head.

Sherlock keened and thrust his hips and his eyes rolled into the back of his head as he started to come. John milked him through it and buried himself as deep as he could to spill into the condom as Sherlock's muscles still twitched.

"Gorgeous," John whispered hoarsely as he pulled out. "Absolutely gorgeous."

Sherlock had slumped back and was breathing deeply with an arm over his face as John went to wet a flannel so he could clean them both up.


	14. It Does, Though

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life has been shit and my brain has been broken, but I'm back.

Less than an hour later John was roused from his sleep, having pulled Sherlock into his arms when the younger man had been cleaned and was ready to fall asleep, early hour be damned, by the sound of Sherlock's mobile pinging with an incoming email. He let his eyes flit open as Sherlock grumbled and rolled out of his embrace.

"In the trousers," John mumbled as he stretched, "your side of the bed."

Sherlock groaned deeply and rolled over to find the mobile and open it to see what the new email was. He was waiting on a shipment of science equipment and it hadn't showed up on time. The email had nothing to do with it, unfortunately, and instead came from the school board. He lay back, head resting on John's chest and opened it. A moment later he sat bolt upright and stared at John with his mouth hanging open and his eyes wide.

"What?" John asked, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. "What is it?"

Sherlock simply closed his mouth as his eyes took on a glazed sort of look. John pulled the mobile from his hand and looked at the screen, scrolling up and reading the email from the top.

The fear John had been feeling fell instantly away. Sherlock was getting an award. At the end of term he was being honored at the usual fundraising banquet and getting a bloody award. John grinned widely and gripped Sherlock's hand.

"Sherlock," he whispered, "I'm so proud of you." 

He held Sherlock's hand to his lips and kissed his knuckles gently. Sherlock simply blinked several times before letting himself be pulled back under the covers and heaving a sigh he had no idea he'd been holding.

_____

The next morning John woke up to the sound of Mrs H fussing about in the kitchen and rolled out of bed with a groan. 

Sherlock was nowhere to be found, in the bedroom at least, and the spot where he had been, the empty bit of Egyptian cotton, was cold. John pressed his face to the wrinkled material once before standing again and cautiously opening the door to the loo, naked as he was. When he found it empty and the door connecting to the rest of the flat closed he walked in and went about taking a shower.

As the hot water fell across his back he strained and was able to make out only the solid rumble of Sherlock's voice in reply to Mrs Hudson's cheerful inquiry.

"Have you got a tux for the benefit?" she asked.

Deep rumble of an unintelligible, at least to John's ears, reply.

"You can always use a tux, Sherlock!" Mrs H replied. "Why, if you keep fit you could even wear it when you get married someday."

There was a loud bang and a bit of cursing and Mrs Hudson laughed before going on.

"It's fine by me, you know. Doesn't matter who it is as long as you're happy, love," she said, loudly enough to give John the impression that she knew he was listening in. "And I know John makes you happy."

The deep rumble of a voice again and then the sounds of food being plated as John turned off the shower and towel dried his hair. When he felt more refreshed, teeth brushed and hair combed, he made his way into the kitchen, wrapped in his usual terry robe.

"Mrs Hudson," he said, kissing the older woman on the cheek, "I take it you heard the good news."

Mrs Hudson nodded and handed him a cup of tea. "You boys have a good day. Sherlock, tell your brother thank you for the croissants. They were delicious."

Sherlock grumbled under his breath and refused to look up until John was sat across from him and managed to kick him a bit under the table.

"I'll tell him," he said in a manner that seemed to imbue the words with the animosity that wasn't ever far when speaking of Mycroft.

"So, shall we go tux shopping?" John asked, lips curled into a smile as he loaded his toast with butter and a particularly good looking strawberry jam that he didn't recall buying.

"Mycroft brought the jam," Sherlock said in lieu of a response.

John paused with the toast in front of his mouth and raised an eyebrow. "Is it poisoned?"

"Doubt it," Sherlock replied with an agitated huff.

John took a large bite and let his eyes slide closed. Oh, there really wasn't much that came close to a good strawberry jam. 

"They won't let us go to the fundraiser as a couple," Sherlock said softly, carefully tearing pieces from the newspaper.

"Because we're both men?" John asked. "Or because we're coworkers?"

"Either, both," Sherlock replied weakly. "Not that it matters."

"It does, though. To you," John said, resting his toes on the tops of Sherlock's feet and looking him in the eye. "So we should talk to Lestrade about it. The school board can't ban it unless they feel like being complete arseholes and looking like a bunch of medieval twats."

Sherlock swallowed hard and pushed an envelope over to John. It was already opened and John wiped his hands before slipping the paper out and beginning to read. The paper was thick and had the header for the school board at the top, serious news then. John read it quickly and then slammed it down on the table.

"That's bollocks!" he shouted, legendary anger pouring out. "That can't possibly be legal! And your own bloody brother!" 

"It's only his official position. It isn't like he can bend the rules because it's me," Sherlock replied, looking back down at the table and tearing more of the paper.

John was on his feet and getting dressed in seconds, his mood evident in his stiff movements and the slamming of doors. Sherlock sighed and wanted to vomit, his mouth filling with saliva in an unappealing way. In a few minutes John was getting ready to leave.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock asked, confused and exhausted. "We don't have to leave for an hour and a half."

"I'm going to see your brother, give him a piece of my mind," John said as he opened the front door and then paused. Sherlock bit his lip as John walked back to him and pressed a soft kiss to his forehead. "I'll sort it all out. I promise, yeah?"

Sherlock nodded and slumped back into his seat.


	15. Perhaps We Should

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys for the kind well wishings. Short chapter tonight as we come to a close but one I hope shines a little light on Mycroft's state of mind.

Mycroft wasn't actually surprised to have someone emphatically knocking on his office door that morning. Sherlock had still been in bed, and what a surprise that was, when he'd gone to his flat earlier to drop off the official letter and breakfast for he and Mrs Hudson. She'd received him with a kind smile but he knew his brother wouldn't feel the same. 

It was a risky move, telling Sherlock he couldn't bring John as his boyfriend to the fundraiser, but one he'd been planning for months. He'd yet to meet John and didn't necessarily trust the man's intentions with his brother. This would push either his brother or John to put their cards on the table, so to speak. If John wasn't as serious as Sherlock thought he was, which Mycroft expected, he wouldn't be bothered by the letter. If he was, well then...

"Don't believe we've met," Mycroft said as John swung the door open and stomped in.

"You couldn't even give him a day," John seethed, stomping closer and leaning against the desk, his fist leaving marks in piles of important papers.

"Pardon?" Mycroft asked, hoping his surprise didn't show.

"You knew he'd get the email this morning and you couldn't even give him a day to be happy. How early did you have to get up to ruin your brother's morning? He's probably still at home right now feeling like shite!" John shouted.

"Please, Mr Watson, there are people outside," Mycroft said in his most condescending voice.

"I don't bloody care!" John replied angrily. "And even if we don't get to go to the bloody fundraiser together I need you to know you hurt him. If you have any decency at all you'll find a way to fix it. And quick."

And like that, John Watson stole Mycroft Holmes' breath. Not romantically, of course, but he did. Mycroft could only watch him leave with his mouth fixed in a thin line. If he didn't know better he'd say John wasn't a teacher at all, but a junk yard dog, snarling and spitting and all that. Breathtaking.

_____

Sherlock still looked like he felt horrible at lunch when he showed up at John's classroom with his tray of food. So much so that John didn't say a word, instead scooting his chair over so Sherlock could join him and going back to his food. Sherlock took his seat and sighed loudly as he began pushing some mashed potatoes around on his plate with his fork. John rested his hand on his knee and squeezed lightly.

Just when he was about to say something, probably along the lines of 'your brother's an arse', a thin woman with her hair in a tight bun and her eyes on her mobile made her way into the room. She walked right up to their table and set a crisp white envelope on it and, without a word or look to either man, left. 

John looked over to Sherlock once she'd closed the door, confusion etched on his brow.

"What the hell was that?" he asked.

"Anthea," Sherlock replied. "At least this week. Mycroft's assistant."

John picked up the envelope and opened it quickly, pulling one thick piece of bone-white paper out and placing it on the table between their lunch trays, fingers pressing it flat as his heart began to race. On it, under the same letterhead of the one that morning, was a list of rules titled 'Code of Conduct for Coworkers Participating in Romantic Relationships'. 

"Oh," Sherlock whispered.

John swallowed deeply and took his hand, something ruled inappropriate in the letter but unlikely to be punished as it went unseen below the lip of the table.

"Perhaps we should go shopping after work," John said, soft fondness filling his words.

Sherlock cleared his throat and ran the fingers of his left hand over the words on the page as the thumb of his right ran over John's knuckles. "Perhaps we should."


End file.
